The Place You're Promised
by Fever Blossom
Summary: The world had taken from her with one hand, and it had given back with the other. They say you can't pick family, and you can't help loving who you love. They claim she was a force that had happened in their lives, but in truth she knew they were all forces happening in hers. There are no happily-ever-afters in a wasteland. [ported over from ArchiveofOurOwn]
1. A Prologue

**A Prologue**

The bitter reality was that she had never been her own person. She could have stared from her frozen tomb and contemplated the absence of personal choice for all her years, had she not been, instead, preoccupied with two century's worth of hibernation. Not even after the shaking and the wretching, crawling across a timeless vault floor, reborn into a foreign and yet familiar world, did it suddenly transition. Rebirth had granted no fairytale remedy; it had only saved, for the woman, fear and isolation and deep, empty loss. Born again to suffer, and gifted no new empowering sense of direction or cause. Nothing beyond a desperate drive to reclaim the last vestige of her faded reality and former life. A ghost from a world blown away to nuclear dust.

Reflection.

A childhood blessed with the soft comfort and accommodation her father's law firm provided for the family, it had been hers. It had paved her gradual pathway to a legal counseling degree. They had said, "Your father is an exemplary man. Do what you can for him." She'd passed the bar, she'd made him proud. It had been an accomplishment. She'd been told, "Even more so for a woman." She'd framed her accomplishment, and up on the wall it had been hung. This is me, this is what I have achieved . It had been paper for pedigree, and not a moment after the wire went taut across the single nail, securely mounting the frame for proud display, did she not have her next duty already elected. Paper for pedigree, and pedigree for procreation.

Reflection.

He'd been a war hero; another poster child. A purple heart, medal of valor, and honorable discharge. The full package, all neatly wrapped with the tidy little bow of military-issued chem rehabilitation to secure the stars and stripes wrappings of national service. That had been Nate. He'd been charming, witty, and impulsively spirited. They'd met through mutual acquaintances at a fundraiser, and the impulsive charmer had set his mind on her almost instantly. She'd been receptive to his charismatic advances. They had said, "That soldier is an exemplary man. Do what you can for him." When he had asked for her company, she had given it. When he had wanted more, she gave that too, and did what she could for him in the back of his glittering new Chryslus. When she had discovered the result of their coupling in the Highwayman's backseat, they announced an engagement. She'd been told, "It is your duty as a woman," and she was content with her position. She had pedigree and a hero for a husband. Nine months later and she gazed down into the baby-blue crib at the squirming bundle and thought: This is me, this is what I have achieved .

Then the world was burned away in nuclear fire.

The old world died. Nora was reborn into a new one.

"If a flame is to grow there must be a glow."


	2. Something for Myself

**Something for Myself  
**

* * *

Nate had once told her that war never changes.

Perhaps it was so, Nora was no soldier and had no objection to the claim. War might not change, but Nora had found herself in a position to see exactly how war could change the world. She could look out from the hill where the vault entrance plunged deep into the earth, straight beneath her feet, gaze out in any direction at all, and could behold the change that the ravages of war had blessed over the land. She had no bearing, no understanding, of how much time had really passed since she had watched nuclear flame erupt over the horizon. Atomic destruction sending hot genocide flashing across the expanse, whipping through her hair. One big, final bright light as her reality began that dark descent.

When she had ascended from her maze of the preserved dead, over two hundred years later, reborn into a new world as helpless as she had been born into the old, it was Codsworth who informed the madam how long it was that she had been locked beneath the ground. It was Codsworth who kept her alive in those first, initial days.

After the nauseating escape from her cryogenic crypt, Nora had been too shocked, too devastated, to formulate any plans on how to continue living. She wasn't made of the grit to simply shrug aside all her loss, all her sense of utter abandonment. She'd spent the first half of her first day in the old-new world huddled in one of the forgotten Vault-Tec trailers. Unknown to the sole escapee, the metal heaps had withstood the last two hundred years, rusting and warping beneath the irradiated sky. Nora had quietly slipped inside one and curled herself up into a corner of the dirty floor. Nate was dead. Shaun was gone. The bombs had dropped, and she didn't understand how a person could simply close their eyes one moment, open them again, and the world as it had once been was no longer there. It was dizzying.

It was the thought of Nate now dead, and Shaun spirited away, that eventually drove Nora from her catatonic shock and helplessness. Gazing into her palm at the two tiny bands of gold catching the dejected light from the off-color sky, Nora had had her first lucid thought since her escape from Vault 111. She'd made a promise, a promise that she would get back what had been stolen from her; stolen from her husband. She'd get help, and she'd find their son. She'd find justice for Nate. Nora's first brave step towards this promise was making her way back down the little dirt pathway to Sanctuary Hills. Nora had to get home, had to get herself out of the suffocating hold Vault-Tec still held over her. She had a stomach churning compulsion to undress, to change. A compulsion to rid herself of the vault suit that clung to her like a death shroud, like dead skin. Once she'd shed herself of the vault's tainted reminder, she'd be able to contact whatever authorities were in charge now that the war had finally hit the homeland, and she'd be able to begin making good on her promise.

Nora pocketed their wedding bands. In her last goodbye, she'd taken both rings. They hadn't stolen every last piece from her. She'd kept something for herself. Picking her way back down the trail they had previously taken, Nora had to stop, halfway back to the Hills, to wretch into a bush. Whether the after effects of the cryogenic pod or the upset over the tragedy she'd risen from, She couldn't say what had left her more nauseated. She'd spat out a few times, face twisting at the sour tinge, and into Sanctuary she emerged.

It was nothing of the home Nora had once known. Where green lawns had once spread immaculately under an autumn sun, gleaming cars once adorned the fronts of residences, and houses had stood proudly erect, bright paint welcoming in friendly shades, there was now a graveyard to these memories. It had taken Nora a few minutes of silent appraisal to adjust to this new view unfolding out on either side of her. This was war. This is what war could do. Nate had always told her about the ugliness of warfare, but what a tragically vivid appreciation she was suddenly able to have for it, standing there, amidst the wreckage of what had once been beautiful.

Nora had the presence of mind to be grateful, however. The bombs could have dropped a lot closer to home, she had reasoned. The warheads could have leveled out Sanctuary and every neighborhood around for miles. How would she have found help to locate Shaun then?

The only help she had succeeded in finding, at that time, had been Codsworth.

The ever-faithful Mister Handy had been Nora's first contact in the new world, and the first one to explain the gravity of the reality she had awoken to. Two centuries beneath the world, left sleeping like some forgotten relic, and up above life had spun on. How could a regular human being simply close their eyes one moment, open them again, and the world as it had once been was over and done with two hundred years ago? The magnitude of the situation had crushed her. What had felt to her like a moment in the vault had been a lifetime twice lived. Nate had been dead for two centuries. They had kidnapped Shaun, and Nora had no knowing of when they had they done it. Had it been the day before? Had it been a year ago? A hundred years ago? Was their son even still alive? It was suffocating, and as the Mister Handy attempted to be of good use to his lady of the once-house, and helpfully explain to her the current environment above ground, the further Nora slipped away into the abyss with each thing she learned.

A day turned into three days, three into six, and on the seventh day, Nora ran out of food. Codsworth had turned to pillaging through homes in order to keep his mistress fed. To the robotic butler's great dismay, he'd watched the lady of the house slip into a listless state of utter indifference. Indifferent to her needs, and indifferent to the dangers of the wasteland. He'd warned her, so very duteously, in regards to the threats of the land. The feral packs of vicious dogs that might wander through, sniffing for scraps. Groups of violent men that may sweep into an old neighborhood, looking for anything worth the salvage. The beastly creatures that now roamed the barren landscape, that she had to be wary of. Codsworth just couldn't appreciate the lack of interest the ma'am had in mustering forth some kind of defense. When she had failed to even show the basic interest of providing for herself, Codsworth had faithfully picked up his old role of assisting the madam with her needs. He'd dig through half-destroyed pantries and fish out a two hundred year old box of sugar bombs, spend the next hour or two convincing the mistress to eat it. He mustered up the task of protecting the ma'am, defending her gallantly against the fearsome bloatfly or two that would hover into their neighborhood.

Despite his best efforts, however, Codsworth found himself primarily distracted by a growing sense of inadequacy. Like a plant that just wouldn't take to a new pot, the General Atomics robot could not compute why the madam was not springing back to vitality now that she was returned home.

Codsworth had endured long decades of isolation and abandonment, and for the most part he could say, with some pride, that he had managed to keep himself from utter disrepair. He hadn't exactly fallen apart. He liked to believe that unlike some other Mister Handy models, he'd been made within the good pedigree parameters of true manufacturer satisfaction. As for the cognitive anguish of having nothing but an abandoned home to attend to, Codsworth had done his best to keep his focus on other more material matters. Matters like the constant war against mold setting into the damp walls after another rainfall. Battling the rust and warp of metal frames, bloating wood puffing up and splitting open. His tireless and thankless crusade against the devastation wrought over the kitchen linoleum.

When the ma'am had suddenly materialized from the dust and dirt of the neighborhood, so suddenly there as the family had so suddenly gone the day the air sirens began, the overwhelming sense of everything over the past two centuries nearly overrode the Mister Handy's functional capabilities. The robotic butler had done his best to hold himself together, reassured that with the mistress back, things were bound to improve. Only they hadn't. No progress had been made in the week that passed, and Codsworth was growing keenly suspicious that there was some human element he was simply failing to grasp.

Two days ago the Mister Handy had found it necessary to travel out beyond Sanctuary in order to scavenge food goods to bring back to the madam. He'd had to warn off some lone dog sniffing around the neighboring Red Rocket, but he'd found no hostiles and two cans of cram for his efforts. Yesterday he'd found it necessary to brave the ruins of old Concord. Codsworth had cautiously raided a couple collapsing homesteads for water and edibles, and had silently appraised a firefight eruption two streets away from an inconspicuous alley. The shootout had been short lived, but both parties had sustained casualties. The Mister Handy was well-educated in raiders, and raiders were most obviously one side to the confrontation. The other appeared just another wandering group of scavengers or weary settlers, but Codsworth hadn't risked making contact to verify. Not even after the raiders had retreated and the settlers had collected their fallen comrade did the Handy approach. He'd long ago learned that keeping to himself was the best prevention for catching bullets. Humans were remarkably eager to fire upon their own kind in the post-war world. The chances of attack only increased the less human one looked. A day later, however, studying his madam as she listlessly shuffled through her broken down home, dark hair a stark contrast to the lack of color over her face and against her cream dress, Codsworth reasoned that perhaps human contact was what Nora was in need of. She'd always had the sir and baby Shaun before. The Mister Handy decided it was worth the risk if the ma'am could be revived by the human element that he himself couldn't provide for her.

That evening, out of dinner and options, Codsworth brought up Concord to Nora, and the potential group of settlers he had descried in the ruins of the city.


	3. Least Favorite Life

**Least Favorite Life**

* * *

She clutched at the rifle, hands already gone clammy. She adjusted her grip, hating herself for the sweat she could already feel between her fingers. It was frosty, and the breaths puffing before her nose were misted, but he'd made her take her gloves off while she was set up to be pulling the trigger. She had thought her hands would have been too numb to sweat, but she had miscalculated her nerves. He was making her nervous. She wanted to make him proud, but killing things had never been part of her reality. That had always been his. Her legs were going dead below the knee, folded beneath her where she sat over worn tarp. How long had they been camped out here in one spot now? Light snowfall piling up over them as they patiently waited.

Movement caught her attention, and Nora instinctively squinted a blue eye shut as she peered through the rifle's scope with the other. She could make it out past the expanse of barren trees; a lone stag. Beside her, a set of tactical binoculars peered out with her.

"When you have the shot," he breathed.

She hated these expeditions. It was uncomfortable, it was unpleasant, and she never felt that she was any good for it. Yet he'd broker no room for argument, and so Nora had no option but to accompany him out on these hunts. She'd made a life of meeting the expectations placed before her, there was nothing in her that thought now would be any different. Resignation glared apologetically from the cross hairs, and after a full minute of watching the lone beast slowly reveal itself from the naked thicket, bones gone stonework with how hard she was braced, Nora pulled the trigger. The shot was like a firecracker firing off in her ear. She wasn't looking through the lens any longer, but she could see the stag flipping like a hare. For an icy moment, Nora thought she'd missed the killshot. That gut churning guilt seizing her up in a strangle hold. The stag lurched for the trees. Nora felt the instant heat of shame creep over her face, and then the animal convulsed and drove itself into the powdered ground. Beside her, Nate rose to his feet.

"See? Bullseye."

Nora stared out to the brown lump that had gone still. She felt no sense of pride, no satisfaction for her kill. Nate was proud for her. Nate was the one taking satisfaction from her success. Nora felt nothing but a dull sense of relief. Relief for the end of it and for having avoided disappointing him. They'd collect their trophy and they'd be heading home the sooner for it. Every season she'd silently whisper a prayer they'd find no quarry. Every year she felt that lame upset over another life she had stolen. The first and last time she had ever voiced her reticence in taking life, even of a simple creature, Nate had laughed until she felt foolish for having brought up her feelings. It wasn't that he was being cruel, and she had understood that even then, it was simply that he found her tender upbringing amusing. He'd told her so on more than one occasion. Nate and his brothers had grown up fishermen and hunters, and then as a man, he had enlisted on the war front.

Nora had never handled a gun before she met Nate. Her father had been a sportsman in his youth. On the subject he'd regal, "hunting has always been a stately sport." Personally, she'd never found anything stately about it. Staring silently upon the mounted faces of long dead game adorning her father's low lit study, she'd felt nothing but a vague sense of pity. The false eyes staring glassy and sightless forever on, Nora always felt that taxidermy beasts had a disfigured sort of stature. They never appeared, to her, as pleasant to look upon as the living, breathing thing.

Crunching through the snow, the pair approached the stag. At closer inspection, Nora could see her bullet had passed through the lungs. What Nate had called the "boiler room;" where she'd been taught to lodge her round. A light froth of blood had bubbled from the stag's snout. To her right, Nate crouched down, dark eyes appraising the dead animal.

"That was a clean shot. You're getting good, and fast. Probably should start working you to the brain pan now."

Nora stiffened, attention caught on the small, bloody hole she'd made in the deer's side.

"We can go back to shooting cans, can't we? Haven't I shown you I can shoot an animal by now?"

Nate's eyes crinkled slightly at the sides. He was growing amused with her again.

"It's not the same thing, shooting an object. Not like shooting at something alive. You have to grow as comfortable with one as the other."

Nora's legs were throbbing with the cold, having been folded for so long beneath her, and her patience with this ugly business she had no interest in was growing thin. Below her swelling aggravation, she understood why Nate was so damn insistent. He'd seen the war in person. He'd seen the price paid for it. He'd told her once before that in combat, casualties were not only paid in soldier lives. Conflict had no prejudice against the people it claimed in collateral. Nate must have seen something in her face because his expression shifted. The teasing smirk softened around the edges into something more compassionate.

"Life can be ugly… and while I'm grateful you'll never have to experience it yourself, I'd never want you to become its victim either… should the worst happen. You understand me, Riley-girl?"

Her nose wrinkled, and the anger melted away like ice before an open flame. Nora couldn't deny that she understood the pragmatic side of Nate's petition, she just thought it was a cheapshot throwing out her childhood namesake just for the advantage it would lend him. Lenora had always been such a stuffy name, especially for a kid growing up. As a woman, she still preferred cutting it down to something less formal. When she had been young, she'd preferred using her middle name. She was beginning to regret ever telling Nate about it, though. Anytime he wanted to win some argument, out would slip the old "Riley-girl" trick. Nora lowered the hunting rifle.

"Is this going to be a thing with you?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Cheating to win."

The sides of Nate's freckled face stretched wide, the terrible grin that had caught her attention first at the pledge campaign flashing up at her. It was the first sign she'd read, back when they'd been introduced, that there was something just a little bit bad about the man. The noble young man, back from the front lines. It was something in the smile that told Nora he was bad in the right sort of way. The way that got her blood thrumming, that captured her undivided interest. For a young lady having lived an easy life of comfort and shelter, educated and well associated, that roguish grin had ignited a spark in her. She'd followed after it like an impertinent moth.

"What's wrong, love?" he smirked, "Not sure you can go full term on this?"

Nora shoved him and Nate broke into laughter.

"You did this to me, you know."

"Well, c'mon then. Let's see if we can't teach you to be a total badass yet. Stories to tell the kid one day, how his mom was killin' 'em even outside the courtroom."

"Oh, shut up," she breathed, lips quirking as she hoisted the rifle up. "It could be a girl."

* * *

She clutched at the rifle, hands already gone clammy. She adjusted her grip, hating herself for the sweat she could already feel between her fingers. Beside her, the dog was snarling. Dogmeat had been a bristling coil of aggression since they had first started cutting their path through the ruins of Boston's streets. The city had become a labyrinth of post war destruction. Everything was dreary filth - broken down buildings, half-collapsed walls, bricks and mortar scattered about in ruins, rusted out skeletons of long-dead cars, and the nightmare things that skulked about through this maze. It was surreal, and not for the first time did Nora find herself subconsciously disassociating from the grim reality of it all. More and more, she realized, she was feeling as though she had become the lead actress in one of her old world holofilms. That all these new horrors and wonders were a fantasy stage set for the telling. That all these new people she was meeting, encompassing the ghosts of former personalities she had known, were simply subconscious reflections projected out from her desperate and lonely mind. Some form of coping mechanism, she reasoned. Sometimes it felt like she was losing her mind.

Beside her, the dog whimpered. They were falling behind. Nora gathered her resolve and reached out to rub absently at the animal's soft head. Her hands grew steadier. She was again surprised at the remarkable sense of comfort she found in Dogmeat's simple company.

"Sorry," Nora whispered. She adjusted the strap to her pack and picked up the pace of her slow creeping, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Dogmeat. We better keep up, huh?"

At the end of the alley they slunk through, Nick had drawn to a halt. The battered detective, in an even more battered trench coat, turned to wait for the vault woman to catch up. True to his word, the synth had proven that he did indeed know the safest route through the deadly Boston streets. Nora had followed his lead like a faithful shadow, just as she had followed him out of Vault 114 on the day they had met. The way she had followed him throughout his manhunt on her behalf, all the way to Fort Hagen.

Looking upon her actions, on what she had so far accomplished… it felt as if Nora were gazing through a lense at someone else's life. Someone else's turmoil. As if she had become personally invested in an old world film. The soft edges, soft loss of focus, it lent a movie-like quality to her mental playback. The fear, the stress, the utter desperation that had driven her ever forward - it had all been like some kind of drug. The adrenaline she'd ridden while using a minigun, the boost to her confidence when wearing the power armor that Preston had let her keep, it had made her believe she was somebody else. While she had chased down Kellogg through the corridors of the old fort, she'd momentarily forgotten who she had been. All she had known was her maternal desperation to gain back Shaun.

Looking back, it had almost felt like her hand had been guided. Where she had choked and balked and hesitated before, she'd known only pure resolve. It had almost felt like one of her hunting trips with Nate. His cool, calming presence guiding her aim. Letting her know she had the shot. All the anger and confusion and desperate need to find some bit of justice - Nora thought she had been on the cusp of reclaiming her lost son, getting her answers. She'd thought she'd been so close. She'd shot the stag, but it had only darted out into the forest.

At least the Institute had left her a trail of blood to follow.

Nora came up beside the detective. Nick swiveled his inhuman, yellow eyes upon her. She was still getting used to looking at them, but they no longer held the same feeling of unease over her as they initially had. Nora had begun to take comfort in their emotionless glow. As she had come to better appreciate Mr. Valentine, the more the clever and resourceful sleuth reminded Nora of her own father. There was a gentleness to the robot that felt familiar. A slow consideration in his gaze, and in the carefully picked words, that dredged up a well of emotions based on a childhood home. As her father had been her anchor in life, Nick Valentine was swiftly presenting himself as a lifeboat Nora could cling to, as the ocean around them crashed monstrously through the storm.

"Well, you feeling like a fight?" Nick drawled lazily, double-checking the pistol in his hand before turning his attention around to peer out from their alley.

"Not really," was Nora's wary but rapid reply.

"C'mon," the synth encouraged teasingly, "don't start selling yourself short just yet. You took out a fair number of Institute goons back in Hagen, all by yourself."

"I had power armor and a minigun," Nora deadpanned. "What's out there?"

"Ferals," Nick replied lowly.

Nora's grip tightened into a clammy stranglehold over the rifle. She had to remind herself quickly to ease up around the trigger. If she started getting jittery and fired off a shot… there'd be no option as to whether or not they'd be fighting their way through the undead… or not-undead. _They're zombies, but not_ zombies, she kept reminding herself, _they're not dead until you make them_ so. At least that's what she had come to learn about the irradiated people from Preston Garvey. Some were like everyone else, he'd told her. The rest were nothing more than monsters. The same as any other blight crawling over the wasteland, looking to kill what it could. Preston advised Nora to keep herself unnoticed by the dangerous kinds. He had warned her about ferals tending to travel in packs. Their numbers could overwhelm rapidly - as he'd informed her about Lexington.

"Let's wait." Nora quickly cleared her throat as it wavered. She didn't want to reveal that she wasn't as brave as Nick believed; didn't want to disappoint the detective. His approval was beginning to mean a great deal to her. Nora didn't want Valentine to realize that she hadn't been brave in Fort Hagen so much as simply desperate and emotional. She was reluctant to share how much the irradiated post-humans frightened her. "Ferals move in groups. If we draw their notice, there's a chance we may alert more. We might be outnumbered."

Nick turned away from peering down the street and fixed his mechanical gaze back upon the woman and the dog. He seemed to silently consider the two crouched allies at his back, from beneath the brim of his tattered hat. After a moment, he nodded his ruined face and lowered the pistol.

"All right, then. We'll wait for them to move off a bit. We haven't much further to go anyway. Would be a shame to start making trouble here at the end."

The two made themselves as comfortable as they possibly could, huddled down amongst the trash and debris of war and two centuries of conflict. In the filth and the stink of the Boston alleys, both companions took the opportunity to evaluate their supply of ammunition and aid. Nora rifled through the goods in her lap with one hand while the other remained looped around the collar fastened to the dog's neck. Dogmeat was a dependable animal, but the last thing she needed was the eager canine tearing off after an enemy he caught whiff of or heard shuffling around on the street. Replacing the boxes of rounds back into her worn pack, she began taking stock of her medical aid. None of this was necessary. She knew the exact state of the contents of her bag. Three stims, six Rad-X, and four Radaway. Digging into her backpack to take inventory was just another way for Nora to cope with her situation. It distracted her. It gave her fidgeting hands something to manipulate, and saved her from jumping like a wild hare at every shadow and sound. Whenever she would finish reaffirming her stock, she would begin to reassemble the way it was all packed into her bag. Any task to occupy her mind and spare it from analyzing her current reality. She was interrupted before she had the opportunity for further fussing, as beside her, Nora felt Nick shift. The synth leaned his head over towards the end of the alley and again peered out to the street.

"Looks like the last of 'em cleared the area. Now or never."

They fell back into the familiar manner of their travel - Nick leading the way with Nora peering through her scope behind him, checking their route. Dogmeat always faithfully bringing up the rear. The only other interruption they encountered was a bloody attack between raiders and a few super mutants that all three paused to observe. A block away from their passing, Nora could watch from her scope as both sides tore into the other. She had finally come to comprehend raiders. Super mutants, Nora was still struggling to accept. Metal men, zombie humans, people with green skin - it was all as fantastical as a fiction, as film. It did nothing to convince Nora that this wasn't all some terrible dream she was living. Something she would eventually awake from. How did a person wake up from a nightmare? They had to pinch themselves? Feel like they were falling? Die? Well she'd been hit, punched, even shot, and here she still was. It was surreal.

 _Nate… if you could only see what I'm becoming. Of all the things I thought I'd be… this is my least favorite._

"Hey, you still there?"

Nora jumped. Nick was inches away from her, having come to a standstill. She hadn't realized she'd been clocking out. She'd almost walked right into him. Nora silently berated herself for it. Losing sense of herself and her environment would get her killed. Hadn't Nate, hadn't Preston, impressed that upon her enough times for her to have learned by now? She had a wandering mind. Her mother had always told her so.

"Wh-What?"

"I said, this is it," Nick repeated.

Nora took a step back, careful to avoid stepping over soft paws. Nick was indicating overhead and Nora's eyes followed his replicated hand to the sign he'd been pointing at. It was a strange splash of color across a rather colorless wall, in a colorless sector of a colorless city. Bright hues against all the stark slabs of concrete and trash, and the occasional splash in varying shades of red. She read the sign aloud, eyes following in the direction of the neon arrow.

"Goodneighbor."

"Yeah, well, don't let the name fool you," Valentine drawled warningly. "Not a whole lot of _good_ happening in this neighborhood. Lowest place in the Commonwealth. Everything not nailed down rolls through here at some point. Keep your wits about you."

They followed the arrow's direction to an end in the street. Barricades greeted the approaching trio, and another emblazoned "Goodneighbor" cast a neon glow from above a single doorway. Here, in this cul-de-sac of sorts, old pre-war posters clung to life across stained and grungy walls. A few broken beer bottles littered the ground that Nora was sure to kick aside for Dogmeat. Dozens of burned-down cigarette butts could be made out amongst the garbage, like gutter confetti. If there was one positive to this first-impression, it was that after traversing the filth and stench of the Boston alleyways to get to this settlement, Goodneighbor hardly looked or smelled any worse. From the outside, at least. Nora had long ago gone noseblind.

"Mind your gear and caps," Nick muttered as a last minute advisory, and then they were pushing through the front door.


End file.
